


the tangled, tender string

by palmviolet



Series: duprass [missing scenes] [3]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (again the major character death is questionable), Angst, F/M, Grief, Mental Health Issues, Missing Scene, S3 spoilers, big sad, i’m sorry lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 07:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19825033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palmviolet/pseuds/palmviolet
Summary: “hey, um, what you did? that was so brave. i can’t imagine- the strength it took-“ nancy quiets again. “you saved all of us. thank you.”joyce stares at the floor, unseeing. all she can see is the hot flash of the explosion, the blue lightning preventing him from coming home. “not everyone.”// the missing three months in 3.08. contains spoilers.





	the tangled, tender string

The paramedics release her with pitying looks and a fistful of painkillers. Jonathan steers her over to a car - whose, she doesn’t know - and she waits in the front seat with her aching forehead pressed against the cool glass. She closes her eyes, and when she looks around the car is full- Will, El, Jonathan, Nancy behind the wheel. The girl gives her a once over, with oh-so-gentle eyes. And then they’re moving, and Joyce lets the hum of the engine lull her into sleep - not peaceful nor fitful, but catatonic. Provoked only by sheer exhaustion.

They come to her house. _Her_ house, the house she’s spent so long contemplating leaving. They arrive and Jonathan touches her shoulder, says _Mom,_ and she jolts awake so violently her head nearly hits the dashboard. “Mom, you okay?” he asks, as she winces and flinches from her wounds. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

(She’s lying.)

She doesn’t let Jonathan help her inside. She’s noticed he’s limping too, if only slightly, if only in such a way she knows he’s trying to hide it. She hopes Nancy has noticed too. She hopes he’ll let her tend to him. 

Will installs El in his bed even as she protests. “Where will you sleep?” she asks, voice weary but caring.

Joyce offers him her bed. It’s not too long, after all, since he used to sleep in with her every night, shaken by fear and nightmares. And her bed is more than big enough for two. But he shakes his head. “Mom, you’re hurt. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

She doesn’t have the strength to argue, though she so desperately wants to. Her boy growing up, growing away from her. Maybe she needs a warm body beside her tonight- but she assents. 

And then she’s alone in the bathroom, staring at herself in her mirror. Her bloody face, her eyes so hollow she barely recognises herself. The uniform- god, the uniform. She tears it off like it burns, fumbles with buckles and straps like the last time she did this- the last time she wore this- wasn’t the last time with Hopper there, by her side.

(She’d changed clumsily in the back of the truck, with the men pacing and sniping at each other outside. She hadn’t been able to work out the shoulder belt, fumbling with the leather while cursing under her breath. Her hands were shaking with adrenaline. Then she’d dropped her belt with a clang and cried _“Fuck!”,_ and Hopper’s footsteps stilled.

“Joyce? You okay in there?”

“Yeah, I, uh-“ She picked the belt up and stared at it hopelessly. “Help?”

He peered around the door at her. She’d managed to pin her hair up under the stupid little hat but the coat was too big - ridiculously big. They’d taken the smallest they could find and still it draped over her like a blanket. His face tightened, like he was trying not to laugh. She scowled. “I swear to god- if you think this is funny-“

He smiled. “You gotta admit, it is a little bit. Just a little.”

He held out a hand and helped her out of the truck, before taking the belt and sliding it around her waist. She shivered at the touch, and then gasped as he pulled it tight. “See, I knew you had a shape under all those men’s shirts,” he murmured. She flushed horribly and her eyes, when they met his, were warning. This was not the time to be- to be _flirting_ , of all things, but he looked at her like he was just stating a fact. 

He took the shoulder strap from her other hand and clipped it into her belt, passed it under the hook on her shoulder and gently turned her around to clip it at the back. “See? We’ll make a soldier of you yet.”

She smiled despite herself. “A soldier too? Sounds like I’ve got a promising career ahead.”

His face became serious. “I meant it, what I said. Forget about sales. I’m sorry I told you to stick to sales, you’re worth so much more than that.”

“I am, huh?” Her smile felt cheeky, but it must have come off as shy, because he nodded vigorously.

“Sure you are. We get out of here, you can tell Donald Melvald to shove his redunancy up his ass and say you’re quitting anyway.”

She chuckled, even as it was a steep reminder of everything she’d been considering leaving behind. Losing her job-

No matter what Hopper said. There isn’t a place for her in Hawkins, not with so many others in the exact same boat. Struggling to stay above water. So her smile turned bitter and vague, and she moved away from him, from that comforting warmth, before Murray came calling with nicknames like _lovebirds_.)

When the uniform’s fallen to the floor, she can finally inspect the damage. Inspect the mottled, angry bruises that decorate her ribcage. There’s another one on the side of her neck, and a small ragged cut too - like when the Russian grabbed her there was something sharp in his hand. She vaguely recalls the sting of antiseptic, in the back of the ambulance. So she doesn’t have to touch it - and she’s glad, because the exhaustion has hit her like a train.

She should clean her face, though. Shower, even, but she’s not sure she can face it. (Like Hopper left some imprint on her body, the last time he touched her, and she can’t bear to wash it off.)

She wets a flannel, holds it to her face, and hesitates. _God._ She hesitates, and feels the tears spring back into her eyes. She hurries to wipe them away with the back of her hand but then they keep on coming and she has to stifle a sob, biting down on her hand with the force of it. _Oh God._

There’s a knock on the door. “Mrs Byers?” It’s Nancy.

She hurries to slip on her bathrobe and smudge away her tears, before opening the door with a wary, apologetic expression. “Hey, sorry, I’m nearly done.”

Nancy’s face softens. “Do you want me to-“ She indicates her face. Joyce swallows, because she knows she can’t stomach it on her own, and lets the girl lead her to sit on the closed lid of the toilet.

Her ministrations are gentle, tender. “Hey, um, what you did? That was so brave. I can’t imagine- the strength it took-“ She quiets again. “You saved all of us. Thank you.”

Joyce stares at the floor, unseeing. All she can see is the hot flash of the explosion, the blue lightning preventing him from coming home. “Not everyone.”

Nancy stills. “You did what you had to,” she says softly. “There’s no way he’d rather have gone.”

Maybe she’s right, but Joyce freezes up. God, she can’t bear this. When her face is clean she flees the bathroom with hands shaking, retreats to her room alone. Grabs a t-shirt blindly and freezes when she looks at herself in the mirror and sees the faded Star Trek logo on it. Like her mind is determined to punish her- choosing Bob’s t-shirt, Bob who was another one of her fucking mistakes-

She’s beginning to work herself into a fresh panic when there’s a soft knock on the door. She goes to open it, tries to calm her breathing-

It’s El. She’s leaning heavily on her good leg, crutches forgotten, and her face is tear-stained in the gloom. “Can I-“ She swallows. “Can I- sleep in here? With you?”

Joyce’s heart breaks. “Yes, sweetie, of course.” 

She draws her over to the bed and lies down beside her, just like she used to with Will - another child small for his age, with hands that shook all too much. El is stiff by her side, like she’s regressed from that languid, loving girl into someone colder and more afraid. More distant. Joyce hopes she’s not drawing into herself, away from them. Hopes they don’t lose her completely.

She sleeps facing away from Joyce, shoulders tense all night. Joyce’s own sleep is fitful and tense, but dreamless. She’s thankful for small mercies.

The morning, though- 

God, the morning. She wakes to an empty bed and immediately she wants to be somewhere, anywhere else. Can’t face the sight of her car on the drive, the table where she smoked with him. (She considers lighting one, toys with the pack, but then the smoke tastes like him and her lips are trembling. She’ll have to buy another brand - Marlboro’s, or Lucky Strikes. Anything to get the taste of him off her lips, the lips he never got to kiss in all the years since high school.)

The pain in her ribs is all but unbearable, too, but at least it serves as a distraction. Experimentally she passes a hand over her thorax and gasps as her vision whites out. Thinks maybe it’s fitting penance.

Her children are huddled mournfully around the kitchen table. Jonathan is redressing El’s leg, while Nancy is kneading something that looks suspiciously like bread dough on the counter.

“What are you doing?” Joyce asks tonelessly. Her voice is hoarse.

The girl’s cheeks color. “Oh, it’s something my mom used to do when we were small. Make bread when something bad’s happened. It’s a bit of a compulsion, really. I can stop if you want.”

Joyce shakes her head. She’s not sure she can eat, but bread sounds better than the microwave dinners comprising everything else left in the house. 

She’s just settled down beside Will, whose eyes are sharp with worry, when the phone rings. She nearly jumps out of her skin. The sound nearly kills her at the best of times, and now-

Jonathan answers it, and immediately his face twists with annoyance. “Will you just leave us alone? She doesn’t want to talk to you. No- I’m not gonna put her on the phone- haven’t you put her through enough already?”

She crosses to the phone and holds out a hand. Jonathan’s eyes are warning. “You sure? It’s Murray. I can make him go away, if you want.”

She shakes her head. Whatever else the man said- did- whatever boundaries he crossed-

No one else was down there, under the mall. No one else dragged her out when she wasn’t so sure she could even stand - and he could easily have left her there. Could have saved his own skin and left her to die like Hopper did, like she almost wanted to-

“Joyce, I need to see you,” is the first thing Murray says. “Can we meet? I’d rather not discuss all this over the phone.”

“No, I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on. If this is about what you said last night-“

“It is.”

Joyce swallows. Murray’s a conspiracy nut, she shouldn’t believe a word he says. Always off on the next cloud to another world. Certifiable, by her own admission (and yes, she knows that’s fucking hypocritical. Doesn’t make _glass houses_ burn any less). But this hope- this faint, fragile hope, that might ease the crushing hurt in her chest that is caused by more than broken ribs-

God, she needs it more than air.

“I’m not allowed to drive,” she says. “Because of the painkillers.”

“I’ll come to you. We need to talk in private, though. None of your annoying brood.”

She scowls. At least he’s not treating her like she’s made of glass, like Jonathan seems to be. Even Nancy, and Will. El is too wrapped up in her own grief.

When she arrives she takes him through to the dining room and shuts the door. Wraps her dressing gown more tightly around herself and watches the emotions flash across his face - pity, annoyance, respect. He’s an open book, and she looks away.

“You can’t give up, Joyce,” he says. “Jim’s too tenacious to die like that.”

She flinches. “This isn’t a movie. It doesn’t- god, it doesn’t work like that. I wish it did.”

He shakes his head. “But look at the evidence. Those soldiers who were vaporised - they left behind this sludge. There was none of that on the platform. And there was a ladder, remember? Down to the gate.”

“You think-“ She stares at him. “You think he escaped through the gate?”

Murray nods. She notes that his eyes, too, are a little red. 

“So that means… he’s trapped. In the Upside Down.”

Again he nods. “Jim’s smart, Joyce. He’ll find a way out of there. Bet he’ll show up here two days from now with a shit-eating grin and you two can finally get it on-“

She stands. “Go fuck yourself.”

He stands too, takes her wrist like he’s trying to comfort her. But it’s not an attitude that suits him - like a coat that’s too big. “Don’t lose hope.”

She shakes him off. Maybe she’ll try - but Murray isn’t who she needs right now. (Who she needs is far away, alive or dead she’s not sure.)

“Thanks,” she mutters, doesn’t meet his eyes. When he leaves she retreats back to bed and doesn’t move for hours. Waiting - waiting to know. Waiting for him to walk through that door with his shit-eating grin. And honestly, Murray’s probably right. If nothing else this absence has furthered her whim for a date to a warm, desperate desire.

But no one comes.

When it’s dark outside again Jonathan knocks on her door, brings her a sandwich so large she feels ill. “You have to eat something, Mom.” She takes a bite to make him happy - it’s ham and mustard, her favorite - and the relief that slumps his shoulders makes her throat clench with guilt. But she’s not hungry, and she’ll make herself ill if she continues, so she doesn’t.

That night El sleeps beside her again, curled just a little bit closer this time. Joyce has dreams that are dark and twisted but vague enough that all she wakes up with is a loose, heavy anxiety - an anxiety that makes it harder to look El in the face.

She has panic attacks every day, though that’s not exactly new.

Murray keeps on calling. Joyce ignores him, while Jonathan yells down the phone for him to _leave us alone_. She can’t face it, not yet. Can’t face more intangible proof. She just wants Hopper to walk through that door, hearty and hale and unharmed, evidence or lack of be damned. So she ignores Murray’s calls.

El sleeps beside her every night, sometimes fitful and sometimes catatonic. One time she has a nightmare, wakes up with _Dad_ on her lips and terror in her eyes, and she buries her head in Joyce’s shoulder till she’s run out of tears. All Joyce can do is hold her, hold her close and tight and try not to sob too.

They’re all worried, she knows that. She’s barely eating - neither is El - and Jonathan’s come across her struggling to breathe more than once. But they all give them space. The grieving women. 

Gradually El’s leg heals, Joyce’s broken ribs heal. It’s a month before she can breathe without pain and by this time she’s had enough of Hawkins, of her dark cluttered house. She’s had enough of sobbing on the shitty green tiles of her bathroom. So she calls Gary, again, and she sorts out a date. Sorts out a buyer, and a destination. Set for four, because there’s nowhere else for El to go. (And Joyce knows she won’t cope left with just Max and Mike. Knows she needs family more than friends, right now.)

Murray’s calls become frantic but she can’t deal with it, not right now. She keeps one part of her mind ticking over - Hopper, where is he, how could he have escaped, when is he coming back - but these questions become muted as time goes on. Drowned out by the pressing guilt and omnipresent concern for El, who is all but wasting away. She busies herself with looking after the girl - taking her to buy clothes, to see the ‘girly’ movies Will scoffs at. Sometimes they just lie on the sofa together and Joyce reads aloud from her book - Catch 22, Agatha Christie, Pride and Prejudice. El says nothing, only occasionally interrupting to ask what a word means, and Joyce is only too happy to tell her. She doesn’t start up _word of the day._ She knows that might break both of them completely.

Hopper’s funeral is later than it should be. It takes a while, to gather all the appropriate loved ones. Both his parents are long dead but he has cousins, and of course there’s Diane-

Joyce takes that one herself. As the phone rings she has to calm the flutter in her chest because it’s just Diane- just his ex-wife, a marriage long over. And it’s not like Joyce was his new girlfriend. It’s not like they ever went on that date to Enzo’s. (God, but doesn’t that make her feel worse?)

“Hi,” she says, as the phone connects. “Is this Diane Francis?”

“Yes,” the woman says. Her voice is high, cold, and unfamiliar. “Who’s speaking?”

“Uh- my name is Joyce, Joyce Byers. I’m- I was- a friend of Hopper’s. Jim.”

“Jim? What’s happened?”

Joyce has to pause to calm the sudden thudding of her heartbeat. “He- I’m so sorry. He- he passed away.”

There’s a moment of silence. She can hear the other woman’s breathing, down the line - steadier than Joyce’s ever is, but still louder than it should be. “God- Jim-“

She sounds choked, and suddenly Joyce is embarrassed. Embarrassed, because what right did she ever have to be sad? Diane was married to him - physically fucking married - and Joyce was what, a brief ex from high school? The woman he agreed to go on a date with? He had a kid with Diane, a real life fucking kid, they shared all that grief together and yet Joyce is the one who is falling apart like she has a right to - which she doesn’t.

“I’m so sorry,” Joyce says, and tries not to sob. “There’s- um- the funeral. This week, on Thursday. We hope you can make it.”

Diane scoffs, but it’s not unkind. “Jesus, I’m glad there’s a _we_. You- you know he mentioned you, before? He really- god, he really goddamn liked you. He ever get the courage to tell you that?”

Joyce manages a half laugh. “Kinda. We- kinda.” She can’t bring herself to tell her about Enzo’s, about dinner denied and stood up and agreed to. Can’t bring herself to unfold the tangled, tender string that connects their lives.

“Well, he always was crap at getting his act together. Took him months to ask me out.” Her voice quiets a little. “The funeral’s in Hawkins, right? 

Joyce nods, forgetting she can’t be seen, before rasping out a _yes._

“I don’t know- my kid, he’s so young-“

She knows the feeling. Knows the feeling of children wailing in cribs while she neglected her emotional attachments. Knows the feeling of becoming mother first, friend and lover second. “It’s okay. If you wanna send a note, we can put it with the flowers-“ Her voice cracks. The last time she planned a goddamn funeral none of it was real, and maybe she’d like that but it seems all too real now.

Diane seems relieved. “Yeah, that might be best. And Joyce? Thank you. I know- you meant a lot to him. To Jim. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Joyce swallows and thanks her, voice barely there. Seems that’s all people do these days - apologise to her, when she’s the only one at fault.

The funeral itself is on a day unbearably hot. Joyce can feel the beads of sweat working their way between her shoulder blades, under her itchy black dress. The kids spend the whole time fidgeting - not because they’re not sad, but because it’s early and they’re hungry and the sun is sweltering down. Joyce herself stands still so long she catches heatstroke, and spends the next few days hunched feverishly over the toilet. But for now she watches the empty casket be lowered into the soil, watches the american flag be folded, watches the smart mahogany get covered with earth. (He was a veteran, after all - a fact everyone likes to forget.) Shrugs off everyone’s gentle hands, their performative apologies. When Murray tries to speak to her she turns away.

(Because if Hopper was still alive - he’d have found his way back to them by now, she’s sure of it. He’d have walked through that goddamn door. So instead she begins to lose hope.)

A month and a bit after they lost him, the press begins to swarm outside her house. She doesn’t know who told them, who tipped them off that the local store clerk and frazzled single mom was somehow involved in the heart of the action, but they come nevertheless. She smokes cigarette after cigarette while watching them through a gap in the curtains, fingers trembling at the attention. And it’s not only grating, it’s dangerous - because she’d rather not have El’s face splashed across the national newspapers. Rather not have her roped into an interview with CNN when she’s gone all but non-verbal again. What was it Hop said? _Don’t be stupid._ Well, Joyce has been damn stupid, bringing his beloved daughter into the very heart of the wolves’ den. 

The press are persistent. At first Owens was able to cover up the mess, put it out as a fire, a gasleak, but the press are smarter than that, especially around Hawkins. The town is dubbed Hell in the Midwest before the month is out (month, because stories are slow in this part of the world). And then Joyce is itching to get out.

They shout questions to her, when she leaves for work. “What really happened that night?” “Is it true the Mall was a Russian base?” “How did the Chief really die?”

This last one always gets her. She has to swallow back the sudden, cursed sob at the back of her throat, because they’re sure to pounce on any weakness. She just shakes her head at them with her mouth pressed in a thin line, and fumbles with her car keys like they might attack her if she’s not quick enough. 

She reaches breaking point after a few days of this. She’s with Will, off to drive him to meet his friends, because she’s back to hovering nervously over him like he’ll slip through her fingers just like Hopper did. And the reporters begin to shout their questions at him.

“Were you there that night?” “What did you see?” “What’s your mom lying about?”

She storms towards them, hands shaking with rage. “You know what? No, okay, enough. I’ve had _enough-“_

One of them grabs her and her vision whites out. She hits him hard enough that her hand stings and she has to turn away to prevent herself hitting him again. “Mom,” Will whispers, wide-eyed. She stares at him.

“I’ll sue!” the guy is saying, but she ignores him. Can barely hear him over the ringing in her ears.

Will has to guide her into the car as she shakes out her hand, inspects the bruise already forming on her knuckles with weary detachment. And when she’s sitting there in the driver’s seat she presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, rests her elbows on the wheel, breathes out a shaky breath.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

Will- God, Will’s seen her like this all too often. She’s really struggling, now, to be the mom they all deserve. Struggling to do anything except worry, struggling even to smile at them.

It can’t go on like this, she knows. _It will get better. With time._ Maybe for the kids - she can sense El bouncing back even now, knows Will has made drawing her out of her shell into a fine art - but not for her. This final, awful wound seems only to get more raw. 

That night her decision is set in stone. She wakes beside El, as she always does, only El’s hands are on her shoulders and her eyes are desperate, and for some reason Joyce can’t breathe. “Joyce,” the girl is repeating. They’re both crying, she notices absently.

It’s with a real effort that she calms the panic knotted in her chest, swallows the images of Hopper’s eyes conflated with Bob’s bloody corpse. When she reaches out for El the girl clings to her so tight it’s like she thinks she’s going to disappear. 

“You were screaming,” she whispers. 

Joyce feels cold. It’s one thing to fuck up her own mental health in the privacy of her own dreams, her own head, but for El to have to witness it-

For Will to have to witness it-

Her children. Guiding her into the car, forcing her to eat, waking her from her panic-stricken nightmares. It’s not fair on them, it’s not fucking fair. She has to do better.

So the next morning she calls the old number that’s been sitting in a drawer for years, and she makes an appointment, and she leaves it with a fistful of anxiolytics. Takes them despite how they numb her thoughts, because they allow her to breathe again. They allow her to smile at her children.

Murray keeps on calling, and she keeps on ignoring him. It’s not like she can think through solutions and evidence and conspiracies, not on the drugs. And she’s long since let go of denial.

Life is about surviving, now.

And then they leave.

— And far away in a Russian prison an American begins to lose hope.

**Author's Note:**

> i.... am sad. lol. but we had to have a little cliffhanger ending, ofc. it can’t all be sad (though honestly i’d be surprised if i don’t have a reputation for angst now lmao)
> 
> fun fact: the shoulder strap thing they have (and she later uses to turn the other key) is part of the sam browne belt design. it doesn’t actually appear to have been a part of any soviet uniforms but interestingly enough it featured in both british and nazi uniforms during wwii. so there you have it.
> 
> as you can probably tell i love nancy and i really want her to have some conversations with joyce!! please!! they have so much in common ugh anyway
> 
> let me know what you think xx


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